


give me how it was, our place under the sun.

by wickedbad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Ambiguous timeline but closest to the films, Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24639829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedbad/pseuds/wickedbad
Summary: “Should you ever choose to stop running, you know a home which you are always welcome,” Legolas said, and he felt torn in two, as if he should reach out to grab Aragorn and not let him go. And, he hoped that, before the end, he would see him again. Maybe then, it would be different, for a year had not been enough time for tender love to blossom and grow.In the events before the Lord of the Rings, Aragorn heads east to distance himself from rumors of his true identity. Once there, he finds himself in the Woodland Realm, where he comes to learn there is much to be found in places one would not think to look.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 55
Kudos: 84





	1. Toward Eastern Skies

**Author's Note:**

> hi! thank you for checking out my fic, i really appreciate it!! i just wanted to preface this by saying that i've taken a few liberties with the timeline and the lore, but i tried to stay as accurate to canon as possible. i hope you enjoy!!

There had been many whispers in the western lands of Eriador; the wind carried murmurs of Isildur’s heir, that he roamed the Wild under many names — they said he was of shadow, there one moment and gone the next. For many years he guarded his name like a precious jewel coveted by the greediest of Men, yet the search of the Enemy closed in, growing stronger with the rise and set of the sun. 

He was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he had chosen exile many years ago, now. His duties as Ranger found him in the Wild for many long stretches and much time had passed before he heard the whispers for himself. Thus, for now, he knew that he could not stay in Eriador; he needed distance, and much of it, between the growing murmurs and his name. 

Therefore, he decided he was to head east and make for the Gap of Rohan, just as he had many years before when he served under the hand of Thengel, Lord of the Mark. The stars had aligned, he thought, for there must be greater forces at work to push him toward the call of the east; visions had come to him in his sleep, and his dreams were filled with the rushing flow of the River Anduin. There, he could see himself sitting beside it — the golden sun cast behind him, the air sweet on his tongue, and the sky cloudless and fair.

Now, he followed the distant passage of the Greenway, and he was enveloped in the Wild — the trees danced in the westward winds, and the days passed with ample sunlight beneath the forest canopy. The path had been well-traveled, not by commonfolk, but rather by those who knew the way — those who could make their way along the edges of shadow in the darkest corners of the earth. The sun and stars made wonderful guides, and he watched the blanket of the night turn to the warmth of day as he trekked forward.

He was quite a swift traveler, but the course that had been set would take well over a fortnight — especially if he was fortunate enough to not run into trouble along the way, for many vicious things dwell in the veil of the night. Thus, on the first night, he climbed the branches of the tallest tree, and watched the shadows.

In the tree, he thought of the whispers and the dark words they could not swallow; the shelter of exile had never been enough, even when he walked with timid steps, careful not to make homes in the places and people he met. It was his way, and it had been for many years, and not even the songs from the earth’s sweetest voice could sway him. And, they had tried **—** oh, how they tried — but in his heart he knew he belonged to the Wild and it to him. 

The next days were uneventful, as they went on just about the same as the first; he walked by day and rested by night, and it was seldom that he strayed from his path. By the count of the passing sun, he knew that he would see the Gap of Rohan in a fortnight, and he would reach the edge of the forest the following day. 

However, it was on this day of his journey — the fourth since he had begun — that the will of fate changed its course and drew him much further north than he had once intended. A silly thing fate is, for even the stubbornest of People cannot fight its power, though they may still try. 

In the late afternoon on the fourth day of his journey, there was a rustle to the north — a noise that stilled the air and had Aragorn wrap his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Then, the sound of many footsteps followed, and they stomped to-and-fro in circles, their weight heavy against the earth. There, he paused — ever alert, he was — and listened as the wind carried the echoes toward him. 

There were four sets of feet, he assumed, based on the weight of the steps and how they trampled against the hard ground; these were not the steps of Man, for they were sluggish and stomped with each footfall. The Enemy was known to linger in the woods, in the darkest parts where most Free People did not go, and they were often thirsty for battle. Thus, he approached as if stalking prey, and the weight of his blade felt twice as heavy in his hands. He was not unfamiliar with bloodshed, for blood spilled meant another day was to be lived, and he was not afraid. 

Alas, many paces north from his path, thick smoke floated through the forest canopy; through the wafting embers of the fire, he could count four orcs, parading back-and-forth without much regard for secrecy. They were a small army, matched with twin sets of armor and swords with a growing collection piled at the base of a tree at the foot skirts of their camp. 

Four, he thought, he could take without much trouble, for he had fought many greater foes during his journeys. Though, the threat of nearby patrols lingered and the sound of struggle would send them staggering through the forests after him, their horns beckoning their allies to their aide. In all, orcs — no matter how few — was not a pleasant sight, as they were few and far between in these regions since the Rangers had pushed them to the edges of the realm. 

The shadow grew on the forest, the light of day fading into eventide. He knew that he could not, with good conscience, continue his journey east until the threat of the Enemy had been resolved. Thus, he made for the nearest tree and climbed its rough bark, settling himself within the seat of its branches; then, he pulled the dark fabric of his cloak taut around his face, disguising himself into the growing twilight. 

As dusk faded into night, he waited in the tree with a keen eye watchful for lingering orcs. After many hours, the group of four had seldom moved since their dinner came and went, and two of them had settled against the hard ground to rest. The other two separated toward opposite ends of the camp, their weapons drawn as they kept their gaze on the shadows of the forest. 

Aragorn continued his watch for another hour until the closest orc to him yawned, then rubbed at his eyes as the light from the campfire crackled and dimmed. If there was ever an opportune time to strike an Enemy, it was when they were asleep, he knew, for orcs were brutal fighters. If they so desired, they would stop at nothing to tear his limbs from their sockets and do whatever horrors they could imagine to the rest of his body. Thus, when a snore came from the mouth of the nearest orc, Aragorn sunk from the tree branches, his feet light against the solid earth. 

As he approached the camp, the moonlight twinkled against his blade, and he prowled toward the sleeping orc. Before the Enemy could awaken from his slumber to blow his horn, Aragorn brought the edge of his sword to his throat and slit across his skin until the orc fell limp. With caution, he set the orc down and dragged his body into the tall grasses, then returned to the shadows to make for the other side of the campsite. 

For the remaining guard, he handled him quite the same as the first; then, he stepped through the campsite, mindful to where his feet fell, toward the sleeping orcs with their backs turned to one another. As he raised his sword above the first orc, the creature awoke with wide eyes. From his mouth came a terrible shout, too quick for Aragorn’s blade that stabbed through the orc’s armored chest. At the sound of the shriek, the second orc jumped up from the ground, his weapon ready in hand as he clashed his blade against Aragorn’s. 

They struggled for a moment, their weapons colliding against the other in battle until Aragorn tripped the orc, then slashed his throat with the edge of his blade. Then, only moments after the creature’s body hit the earth, Aragorn heard the rustle of many footsteps echoing from the east and south — there were more than he could count stampeding toward him. They approached the edges of the campsite, staggered about as they burst through the trees shouting hideous yells as they waved their weapons above their heads. In the flickering light of their torches, he could see there were at least twelve, and they charged toward him with violent fervor satiated by only one desire. 

The clash of metal echoed throughout the sleeping forest, awakening the creatures of the shadow as Aragorn fought against the horde of orcs. They pushed forward, relentless in their struggle, forcing him out of the campsite and toward the north. The orcs followed him in a frenzy, but his strides were much longer and faster than their own; thus, they shot arrows at him while he weaved through the trees, dodging the darts as they sailed past him into the night. 

Then, a sting pierced through his upper arm, cutting through the fabric of his tunic; the pain rippled through his skin, hot like a flare. He continued to run through the forest, daring not to glance over his shoulder to look upon the orcs behind him. A few times he had come close to running into trees, for the veil of the night hid the pale light of the moon, and the orcs did not fear the dark or the evils within it. 

As he swerved out of the way from a tree, his knees gave out, and he hit solid ground; he tumbled until he was flat on his back, leaves and twigs decorating his hair and cloak, and the earth shook as footsteps approached. A large orc hovered over him and pressed one of his heavy boots into Aragorn’s chest, crushing down on him with all his might. The breath was taut in Aragorn’s lungs, and he could taste the heat of iron in his mouth. 

Then, he reached for his side, pulling out a smaller blade from its scabbard and stabbed it into the orcs’s leg; they toppled for a moment, wrestling against the ground until the earth gave out beneath them and sent them rolling down a hillside. When they reached the bottom, their backs fell hard against roots and rock, Aragorn reached for his sword and stabbed it through the orcs’s torso, his body limp as it crashed against his sore chest. 

At the top of the ridge, many torches appeared, their dim light revealing silhouettes that peered down into the darkness, their bows drawn downward. Aragorn staggered then, grabbing the bow from the back of the fallen orc and slipped into the shrubbery until he stumbled up a tree and sat within its branches. There, he waited for the orcs to descend down the hill, bumbling about in the darkness and shouting into the depths of night. 

As they came, Aragorn shot at the orcs, watching as they knocked one another down the hill until they amassed in a pile at the bottom. The rest of the orcs that had not caught up would follow, he knew, and they would seek revenge against their fallen companions. They would be fueled by their outrage, eager for bloodshed, and they would not rest until they had his head upon a spike. Thus, he knew that he would no longer see the Gap of Rohan, and he would instead make for the north. 

He leapt from the tree, his knees colliding against the ground as his bones ached with the movement; his breath burned in his chest, pulling tight with each breath taken. The sleeve of his tunic was damp, soaking up the blood from the wound on his arm, and his cloak had been torn from the tumble down the hillside. Each bone in his body felt as if it was going to break, like he turned more fragile with each step forward, but he carried on with the stars bright and glittering above him. 

After many hours of travel, which would have been in vain if he had not known the way quite well, the familiar rush of the River Bruinen met his ears; his heart swelled, then, for he knew that he would not see the Gap of Rohan; the south path was a treacherous one, now, for one Man could not surpass the strength of a horde of orcs, no matter how strong. Thus, he followed the northern banks of the Bruinen and decided that he was to set his course for Rivendell, the Elven city that marked the beginning of the Misty Mountains. 

Two days passed without much to tell, and Aragorn stopped to rest only once when his legs felt as if they could no longer carry the weight of his body. The shouts from the orcs had ceased many leagues before, dying out in the depths of the wildwood, where they dared not to stray too close to civilization. And, after the sun had risen and fell many times in the Wild, Aragorn found himself along the path to Rivendell. Many seasons had passed since he had last graced the Elven city, and his body grew anew with strength as the crisp mountain air cooled the burn in his lungs. At last, he had returned, and his tired body could seek the rest that it thirsted for and hungered. 

*

In the courtyard, the remnants of the evening sun pierced through the trees like melted gold dripping down the leaves; the earth was warm, yet the breeze carried by the eastern mountains was brisk. Everywhere, Elves busied themselves through the winding corridors; guards and commonelves wandered the halls, speaking to one another in hushed voices as they passed. They did not keep a modest eye, for they looked upon Aragorn with equal parts pity and esteem, like a warrior risen from carnage back home at last. 

Aragorn stood before a high balcony that overlooked the greatness of Rivendell; the mountain air tousled through his hair and filled his lungs with fresh breath; he had not tasted such sweetness in many years, though the murk of the Wild still lingered on him and hovered like a dark cloud above him. Yet, he found himself enveloped in nostalgia for the days of his youth when he roamed the same halls, free as a bird with growing wings. 

“We have not seen you amongst us for many years now, I believe,” Lord Elrond’s voice brought Aragorn to the present. “It would not surprise me to learn you had just returned from war. What troubles have you faced in the Wild?” 

Aragorn coughed, the feeling of dirt still caked along the inside of his throat and lungs. “In the lands of Cardolan I found myself ambushed by rogue orcs. Their purpose there, I do not know, but it may be wise to send patrols to the south.” 

“Indeed,” Elrond agreed, “It shall be done… For now, however, when I heard of your arrival in my city I was most surprised. What has brought you this far north, beside orcs?” 

Aragorn glanced across the horizon as if he could see many leagues beyond the mountains, somewhere both here and there. “I have felt the growing need to head east, across the mountains, to follow Anduin’s flow south. I had once intended to make for the Gap of Rohan, but the orcs strayed me further north than my course had been set,” He sighed, his body aching with memory, “Thus, I made for Imladris, though I do not intend to stay longer than this night — just long enough to catch my breath, for I have been traveling the Wild well over a fortnight, it seems.” 

“I would assume you intend to offer your services to the Lord of the Mark once more, then; though, I hope you find Théoden, son of Thengel, to be as accepting of your sword as his father had once been. It would be wise to secure allies before the moment has passed.” 

The politics of friendship weighed heavily on the minds of those who could afford to offer it, Aragorn thought. “Aye, the word has long since traveled my way that both the King of Rohan and Steward of Gondor have passed their rule to their sons. I do not know what Théoden will make of me.” 

Then, the air stilled for not much stirred in the calm of the evening beside the trees and nearby rushing water. “Very well,” Elrond turned toward the grand door that led to one of the many corridors outside, “I shall see to it that you are equipped with ample provisions before the morning sun rises. And, wherever your travels take you, I hope that you find yourself well. Your visit to Imladris will not go unappreciated, Estel.” 

Elrond pardoned himself while Aragorn remained still, basking in the late dusk. The ache in his bones yearned for rest, though, instead, he pressed his back against the cool stone of the nearest column and watched the sun sink beneath the silhouetted tips of the mountains. 

In the morning, he thought, his head would be clearer and his tired body well-rested, for he would have no choice for them to be. The journey across the Misty Mountains, now that he was many days past his original course, would add an extra stretch of treacherous earth for him to cross. 

“I was surprised to hear my father speak your name, for I did not think I would see you in our lands this year or for many more to come,” A soft voice interrupted his wandering mind, floating in like a peaceful dream. 

Aragorn stood alert, aware of his disheveled state more so than he had been before. Then, he bowed, and spoke: “Lady Arwen, it is always a pleasure.” 

As she approached him, her smile faded, and she reached out to graze her fingertips against the tear on the sleeve of his tunic; her touch was light, soft as if tending to the broken wing of a little bird. “You are injured. What has happened?” 

He hid his arm behind his back, “It is nothing that I have not suffered worse before, my lady. It was not my intention to bring forth worry upon my arrival to your home.” 

“No matter how long you are away, I still wish you well, and I do not take pleasure in seeing you so tired and in pain,” She brought her eyes to his own, her face soft and beautiful in the evening light. “You ought to stay a few days longer, before you cross the mountains. The errands of Men are not so important that one should force their body to travel when it is not ready.” 

Aragorn reached out and placed his hand atop her own, “Lady Arwen, you have the kindest of hearts, and I will always cherish your words, but my wounds will heal. I will rest each night beneath the pale of the moon, and my body will find itself anew within the morning. I bid you not to worry, for the perils of one Man should not concern you now.” 

In jest, she rolled her eyes and swatted her hand away from his loose grasp, “You fool, you say that as if you are not my truest friend; I would worry for you no matter how many leagues there are between us.”

“Fear not, Lady; I swear to you that after my sword has been put to use in the east, I will return to Imladris. Now, however, I feel the eastern winds calling my name; they beckon me to cross the mountains and drink from the cool waters of the Anduin. The reason for this, I do not know, but I wish to find out before I am needed back in Eriador." 

Arwen smiled, “I know there is no use arguing with a Ranger, not when the loneliness of the Wild gives you much strength. I do not understand your desires, but I respect your quest. In the east, far beyond the reaches of here, I hope you find the answers that you seek.” 

“Thank you, My Lady,” He bowed, then stepped aside to allow her to pass beside him. Though, before she could leave his sight, she reached out to place her palm on the cloth of his forearm, her gaze locked with his own. 

“I will hold you to your promise, Aragorn.” 

His face softened, and he smiled wide for he truly meant it. “As I hope that you would. The next time I grace these lands, I hope to find the world full of golden light and the stars twice as bright as they are this night.” 

“That night, then, we will celebrate,” She beamed with joy, her mind adrift in happier days where the world would settle and friends would stay longer than a passing moment. 

“Aye, we shall,” He felt the same feeling tug at his own heart, as if he was missing a moment he had yet to live. Beside him, Arwen’s eyes were full of orange sky, as beautiful as the sun itself, and then she turned to be on her way. 

He watched her until she could no longer be seen, then turned to face the sinking sun and soaked in its melting splendor. He had been kissed by hope, and it blossomed in his chest with a flutter. In another life, he thought, he would stay in Rivendell and watch the sun rise and set before the mountains each passing day. But, he knew that was not his way, for he had chosen exile and there were many things greater than the desires of one Man. 


	2. Prince of the Woodland Realm

In the morning, the sun was pale and the grass was covered in a blanket of morning dew; the water droplets twinkled, and the halcyon mist of the morrow veiled Rivendell. It was at this hour — while the earth was lonesome and still — that Aragorn left as swift as he had come; he did not linger a moment longer than he intended, and he left without a word of goodbye. 

The path outside Rivendell led to the Misty Mountains, where the snow-capped tips peaked through wisps of pink-orange sky; they were mighty, and if one stood upon the tallest crest, they may have seen from each end of the earth. Though, this was but a rumor, for not many people travel to the highest peaks of mountains. 

As Aragorn walked on, he was greeted by mists of cool air; he was enveloped in wintertide and flakes of snow danced in powdered swirls the higher he climbed. This time of year made for decent travel if one was wise enough to know where to step. Thus, Aragorn’s journey through the mountains did not account for much of an interesting tale, as it took him less time than the average traveler to cross such rocky earth. 

Though, on the third day, he did run into slight trouble, for the journey had been too simple for far too long. And, when all bodes well for many days and nights, something is bound to go amiss. 

Upon the mountain, there was a cave — not a large one, for it was quite humble in size. If the snow had not blurred his vision, and the wind had not been so violent, perhaps he would have noticed that one could see to the back of the cave while standing at the front. Though, regardless of its size, there was a cave and inside that cave lived a snow-troll. 

He was faced with the only option, which was that he must slay the snow-troll; it would surely see him as he passed, and he could not leave such a dangerous creature on the path for future travelers. Thus, he steadied his blade and crept toward the entrance of the hollow where the troll had taken to resting against the stony walls; soft snores echoed throughout the cave, drowned out by the howling wind. 

Upon hearing the faintest of footsteps, the troll lifted his head and widened his large eyes; he fumbled about on the floor, like a fish pulled from the river, and reached for his mace. He swung his weapon toward Aragorn, who dove out of the way as it pounded against the ground beside him. 

The troll snorted — a rather vile sound, honestly — and raised his mace above his head, then waved it around the cave in a wide, circular motion. Aragorn took the opportunity to thrust forward with his sword, but missed as the troll dodged; instead, the tip of his blade made an ugly scrape against the cavern wall, to which the troll growled at the sound. Then, Aragorn slipped around the troll in a swift movement and hid behind the creature’s large back as he tossed his head about searching in the dark. When he had completed a full circle to no avail, Aragorn jumped onto the troll’s backside, hanging onto his meaty shoulders as he dragged the edge of his blade across the thick skin of the snow-troll’s throat. 

The troll staggered forward, then crashed against the cave floor until his body turned limp; this caused a crash so loud that surely it could have been heard for many leagues beyond the mountains. Then, when the troll’s body settled, Aragorn searched the area for discarded weapons or provisions that he could take on his journey, but he did not find much besides cracked bones and patches of scorched fur. 

After the small fight with the snow-troll, there was not much left to say of Aragorn’s journey through the Misty Mountains. For the inexperienced traveler, perhaps, they may have encountered more snow-trolls, orcs, or other creatures that dwelled within the crevices of the mountains. Aragorn, though, ever the skilled Ranger that he was, saw no further trouble during this stretch of land. 

Alas, in the late morning on the fourth day since he had left Rivendell, he cast his eyes upon the rushing flow of the River Anduin, and the heavy days of the west were long behind him; beyond the mountains, his troubles were far enough away so that his tired body could seek rest once more.

Now, he was two days from the Old Ford, and his travel time was rather decent, for he expected to reach Edoras in a little over a fortnight. Thus, he kept his pace for another day, stopping to rest along the banks of the Anduin only once, and his aching feet were grateful. He had not tasted the waters of the River Anduin in many long years, and it was as sweet as he remembered. That was one of the many things he loved about the earth, for it would stay the same no matter how much time had passed, and that was a rather comforting thought. 

Then, there was a rustle — so soft that untrained ears would not have heard as much of a stir. But, Aragorn made notice of the way the sound carried through the wind’s current — light footsteps that pressed against the earth with caution. Quickly, he drew his blade and pointed it toward the edges of the Mirkwood forest. Between the trees, on the other side of the river, an Elf stood with an arrow aimed toward the space between Aragorn’s eyes. 

“State your business, Stranger,” The Elf called across the river, his bow steady as he kept a narrow eye on Aragorn. 

“My business is my own, so be whatever it is… I believe these lands are free to roam as I have not stepped far from the banks of the river,” He remained in his place, his footing solid against the edges of the Anduin. 

The Elf was just as stubborn, as well as unimpressed: “Indeed, this would be true, but I would be a fool to let a stranger pass through so close to my lands without as much of a question as to why he is here.” 

“Very well,” Aragorn sheathed his blade back into its scabbard, “I hail from the west, and I am making due south for the lands belonging to the Lord of the Mark.” 

The Elf frowned, and he did not lower his weapon, “You have quite much left of your journey before you reach your destination, then… Say, if you come from the west, why did you not make for the Gap of Rohan? Would that path have not been less treacherous than the mountains?” 

“Aye, it would have been,” Aragorn agreed, “That was once my intention before I set off many weeks ago, now. See, I was attacked by rogue orcs, and there were many that I could not face alone; I chose to cross the mountains instead.”

“You are quite a survivor, then, to endure the wrath of orcs and cross the mountains with your limbs intact,” The Elf paused, eyeing Aragorn a moment longer, “I have fought similar foe, for orcs have been seen in these lands, too. Our patrols have chased them further south; you may catch up to them on your further travel if you do not tread carefully.” 

Aragorn thought to himself that, perhaps, he should seek a different path, for he did not wish to encounter more orcs if they could be avoided. Before he could thank the stranger for his forewarning, the Elf spoke once more: “By the looks of your clothing, I would suspect that you are a Ranger of the North; these are not your lands. State your name, Stranger.” 

“They call me Strider,” Aragorn yelled across the river, the rushing water drowning out his voice, carrying it down the current. The stream had picked up, thrashing violently against the riverbank, and the sound of roaring thunder crashed in the distance. “As I stated, my services are to be put to use in Rohan.” 

At once, as if commanded by an invisible hand, the Elf lowered his bow, “Strider, says you?” Then, he looked upon Aragorn not as strangers, but as if they had once been friends a long time ago. “I have heard your name before, you are not so unfamiliar to me now, if you are truly the Ranger which you claim to be. I beckon you to cross the river, for I must invite you to my lands at once.” 

“I have no intention to journey through the forests of Mirkwood nor any lands beyond the banks of the Anduin. If you have business with my name, it shall be settled here rather than elsewhere, Master Elf.” 

“Nay,” The Elf refused, then stepped out of the shadow of the forest into the remaining slivers of golden sunlight. He stood as if he had doubled in size, and his face was proud as he spoke: “However, this may change your mind: I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, Prince of the Woodland Realm. My father spoke of you by that name many years ago, now.” 

Aragorn squinted through the veil of rain that had started to drizzle, but his eyesight was not as adept as an Elf’s. “It is an honor then, Legolas, for I have heard your father’s name many times before. And, you are correct, as this new information has piqued my curiosity; I shall cross the river to your side should you promise not to strike me with your arrows before my feet may touch steady land.” 

Legolas chuckled, then sheathed his bow and held his palms out before him, “I promise, Strider, that I would not harm the Ranger that my father has long heralded.” 

When he approached Legolas from across the river bank, Aragorn found him to be fair with long, blond hair that twirled like silver songbirds in the growing winds. The sun set in his eyes, blue and gold like the sky itself. And, he was quite austere, yet gentle, too. Upon catching his gaze, Aragorn bowed his head, then they both turned to look across the horizon into the reaches of the brooding storm. The thunder crashed behind them, back from the northern path which Aragorn had come, and Legolas cast his sight many leagues beyond there. 

“You ought not take me for a fool, Strider,” Legolas spoke, the traces of a smile playing upon his lips, “Though you are a Ranger, these are my woods; should you not be the Man which you claim, it will be your end, not mine.” 

“I would not try anything deceitful in lands which are not my own,” Aragorn glanced into the shadows of the forest, then back to Legolas, “If I have my bearings, we are many leagues from your homeland, no?” 

“Indeed, we must travel for two days before we return to my lands, as we dwell deep within the forest. As I said, we chased orcs to the edges of the woods, and I sent patrols further south to head them. I was on my way back when I saw you down the path, many leagues from where we stand now.” 

With that, Aragorn gestured toward the forest, grateful for the invitation and eager to slip into the comfort of the woods. He did not know why, but it seemed like the right choice. And, it would not be the last time that he felt that way. “Lead the way, then, Legolas.” 

*

They walked on for the remainder of the day, enveloped in the stillness of Mirkwood while the thunder chased from behind. They strode forth in silence, listening to the sounds of the woods between the rumbles of the sky — they listened for each stir of the wind, each rustle of foliage, each snap of a branch. 

After many hours that carried on beyond the pink skies of dusk, they stopped to rest. In the moonlight, Legolas looked upon Aragorn, and he found him to be rugged and travel-worn; his past journeys had shaped him, Legolas noted, and he seldom sought solace in lands that were not hidden within the shadows of the Wild. And, his eyes were like ancient stone that had seen far beyond the reaches of most Men. Legolas was intrigued, eager to hear the tales that he had collected during his lifetime, for surely a Man who has walked much land must know many stories. 

Aragorn was tired, he knew, and he was not as skilled at hiding it as he thought; Legolas could not miss the bruises and wounds that decorated his skin, purple and blue like the dusky night. The orcs had left their mark on him that had not yet been forgotten. 

“As we sit now, I have only just noticed your sleeve,” Legolas spoke for the first time since they departed, almost surprised to hear the sound of his own voice in the quiet of the night. It felt odd, like it did not belong, and he wished he had swallowed his curiosity, instead. 

Aragorn sighed; the burn of the wound had subsided many days before, but the scar still tore through his skin, leaving its mark upon him. “‘Tis the mark of an orc; he tackled me, and we tumbled down a hill… I am fortunate that it was not worse.” 

“I am grateful that you survived, Strider,” Legolas smiled, then paused for a moment to look upon the stars. The moon seeped through the forest canopy, its light dim and pale amongst the trees, and he felt at home. Then, he mulled over his words, speaking timidly: “The will of fate is oftentimes amusing, is it not? See, I have been keeping a keen ear out for your name by my father’s request. Now, your path has crossed with mine after we were both ambushed by orcs.” 

Aragorn paused, adrift in the sentiment. In all his years and travels, he had not had dealings with the Wood-Elves, though he had met a few upon their visits to Rivendell when he was a boy. He was unsure how the Elvenking knew of his familiar name, and he wondered then if it had been unwise to follow a stranger into woods he did not know. “That does have me curious, though; did your father speak of my name with malcontent?” 

“Nay, quite the opposite. He spoke of you but only once, and I must admit that I know naught beside your name.” 

“That is good, then; I have done what I intended to do,” Aragorn chuckled, then allowed the silence to settle between them once more, filling the empty space where many questions went unsaid into the night. Then, after his mind wandered back to the travels of his past, he looked upon Legolas, “Say, I have seen many kingdoms and walked across much earth throughout my time, but your lands I have yet to see.” 

Legolas smiled, warm and wide, “Then I hope you find it welcoming, at the very least.” 

“Aye, I hope I shall, too; it will be a rewarding change of pace to be amongst stranger-friends… The last months have been riddled with worry, thus I have been on my lonesome — though, that is often my way.” 

“You left the west not to find your way, then, but to lose it,” Leglolas spoke, as if he had discovered part of a riddle he was eager to solve. Then, he looked upon Aragorn, his face somber in the darkness of the night, and hoped that he would come to know more of the ways of Man. 

Aragorn grinned, “I suppose one could say that… See, I have been called many names and some bear more burden than the rest. I dare not speak them — not here and now — but, perhaps, I may in due time.” 

“I pity that your burden lays so heavily upon you; the names which ought bring us comfort — that define the very truths of who we are — can plague us with peril, if we are not careful.” 

“You are quite wise, Elf-friend, though I should suspect you would be. And, you understand me well it seems, though we have only just met,” Aragorn started, then he stretched his legs out before him, his hand resting comfortably against the hilt of his blade, “Rest now, Legolas; I will take the first watch of the night.” 

“I need not sleep this night, as my body does not thirst for it,” He ran his eyes across Aragorn’s fatigued body, unable to hide his pity in the veil of the night, and he hoped that Aragorn did not notice. “Though, the opposite appears to hold true for yourself; sleep now, and I will keep my eye on the forest.” 

Before Aragorn could reject the offer, Legolas stood from the ground with his bow ready in hand; he walked between the trees, then sat atop a round stone covered in moss, and the moonlight poured through the trees to glow upon him. He was silver in the night, as if the moon had slipped from the sky and settled in the forest. Thus, Aragorn settled his back against the tree behind him and rested his head on its tough bark. 

And, that night, he slept quite well, for his dreams were peaceful and full of sterling light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading this next chapter, and i hope that you enjoyed it! i'm so happy that legolas has been introduced now!! <3
> 
> anyway i'm in the process of editing the third chapter so hopefully within a few days i'll have it posted! thanks for your patience, and i hope you're staying safe!! :)
> 
> also !! if you would like to talk further about aralas or lotr in general please feel free to reach out to me on my [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/isiidurs?lang=en)


	3. Just a Man

Mirkwood was quite beautiful, in an odd sort of way; it was somber and arcane, as if it was guarding ancient secrets within the twists and turns of its branches. The trees groaned, for they had seen many winters, and they had not changed much at all with the passing seasons. 

And, for the remainder of their journey through the forest, Aragorn and Legolas did not run into further trouble since Legolas knew the way well and made quite the guide. They did not speak much, either, as there is seldom for strangers to discuss, and they enjoyed the silence of the woods as they walked between the wildwood and bushes. Their steps were light, as if the pressure of their feet would have been too much for the time-worn earth to handle, and not a soul heard them in the silence of the forest. 

In the evening, after two days had passed since they met along the Anduin, Aragorn and Legolas arrived at the Elven fortress hidden within the depths of Mirkwood’s grove. Alongside the stronghold, the rush of the Forest River carried on, its current a soothing lullaby that calmed the forest with its tune; the sunlight peeked through the canopy, shimmering against the watercourse. The entryway to the fortress was guarded by large stone doors, and they stood so tall they seemed to stretch on for many leagues. And, these doors were protected by an ancient magic that had been passed on throughout the ages. 

The Wood-elves looked upon Aragorn with lingering eyes; they whispered of what tidings may come with a stranger, for it was not often that Men were hosted in their lands. They watched as he passed with his cloak wrapped taut around his body and his hood lowered so that his eyes could be seen; though, he did not lift his gaze from the path before him, and he did not look upon the Elves as they murmured to one another, full of wonder. 

The Elvenking’s fortress was carved into the earth, and it was entwined with many large columns that swirled into intricate patterns stretching from the floor to the ceiling; each pathway and room had been crafted from the living earth itself, and it was as wonderful as Aragorn had heard from the Elves in Rivendell; while secondhand accounts had a habit of being fantasized for the sake of story, it appeared that past portrayals had been fair — perhaps less than — for Aragorn was in awe of the caverns before him. 

Legolas led Aragorn to the top of a winding staircase that emptied into a deep room. “Wait here,” He instructed, “and I will find my father so that he may see to you while seated upon his throne.” 

With that, Legolas disappeared down the stairwell — a slight skip in his step as he went — and turned the corner, and Aragorn felt quite alone, then; he realized, perhaps, that he had come to enjoy Legolas’ company the last couple of days, though their exchanges had been few and far between. After traveling the Wild for many years often on his own, he found that he enjoyed the company, as silent as it was. 

There, in the great halls of the Elvenking, where it felt like he was looking upon the depths of a stonework labyrinth, Aragorn felt quite small — which, indeed, was an odd feeling. He had been before many kings, and he had faced foes much larger than himself, but the serpentine caverns before him reminded him that, after all, he was just one Man. There were many great wonders to be seen throughout the world, and he would consider himself grateful to look upon but a few of them, for many People did not travel far beyond the places which they were born. 

At once, Legolas appeared at the top of the staircase, an eager smile upon his lips, “He is waiting for you, now; follow me, and I will make the introduction.” 

Aragorn followed behind him as they ventured down the winding stairs, which led them to a grand throne room. Inside, it was dark except for the dim light that poured in from the ceiling above, and the stone columns stood like ancient trees that twisted at the tops like branches. At the end of a winding path, King Thranduil sat upon his throne, which was fitted with carvings that resembled majestic antlers. Thranduil was as kingly as one would expect for an Elf with a fortress so grand, and he shared a certain likeness with his son, for he was just as fair and his hair as blond. Though, his eyes were quite stolid, as if they had been carved from jagged stones unbroken after facing many dangers. He was stern, and he kept a watchful eye upon Aragorn as he bowed before the Elvenking sat upon his throne. 

“You have brought a stranger into my halls,” Thranduil addressed Legolas, his gaze piercing like a poniard while he stared at Aragorn, unimpressed with the stranger before him. In his grasp, he held a long staff, which made him appear quite tall even as he sat within his mighty chair. “I expect this to be worth my time.” 

“Indeed, I believe that you shall,” Legolas stepped forward so that he was before Aragorn, and he looked upon his father with pride, as if he had brought home the largest game from the hunt, “Before you, I present a Ranger of the North, known in his realm as Strider.” 

At once, Thranduil rose from his throne, and his scorn faded as he looked beyond his son toward Aragorn. His eyes were curious, full of wonder and amazement as he studied him. Then, he gestured with his free hand toward the staircase from which they had come, “Legolas, leave us.” 

Legolas frowned, “Father, I—” 

“At once, Legolas,” Thranduil commanded, his voice unwavering, and he remained sturdy until Legolas left the room and vanished around the corner of the stairwell. Then, Thranduil stepped forward, descending down the steps before his throne until he was at level height with Aragorn, “So, you are the Ranger which they call Strider; I have heard your name before, and if you are truly who you say, then it is an honor to be amongst the face of legends past.” 

Aragorn bowed, suddenly uncomfortable with the gaze upon him, “I am who I say; though, I wonder who it is you believe me to be, my Lord.” 

Thranduil offered a knowing grin, “I believe that you are Aragorn, Isildur’s heir,” He paused for a moment, drumming his fingers across the length of his staff, “That is what I believe.” 

“Indeed,” Aragorn was relieved to hear his true name from the mouth of a stranger, for he could not remember the last time he did not feel threatened by the sound of it. Now, he did not have to hide, as he had been for so very long. “Your guess is correct, for I am the titles which you have said. Though, they are just that: titles — nothing more than heirlooms, I’m afraid. And, in these lands, I would prefer my familiar name, as my own is not so safe these days.” 

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed, “Now it is your choice if you should share your name with anyone, for it will not leave my tongue henceforth… Though, I am curious as to how your path crossed with my son’s, if you would enlighten me.” 

“It was by mere coincidence, truly. As I have told Legolas, it was my intention to cross at the Gap of Rohan, but I was attacked by rogue orcs that led me further north. Then, I made for Imladris and crossed the mountains from there.” 

“Yes, you are the former ward of Lord Elrond, a fact which I should not forget… Say, it is an honor to see you grace my halls, and if your service is not so needed in the south, then I would invite you to spend time here amongst my people.” 

Aragorn stirred, then he remembered the whispers of his true name in the west. If the Enemy was searching for him, and he was expected to be found in Eriador, then it did not matter where he sought shelter. Thus, he bowed his head before the Elvenking, “I accept your invitation, should you truly mean it and that I would not be a burden. If my sword cannot be put to use in Rohan, then I would be honored to offer it to your aide, wherever it may be needed.” 

“I would not have you work amongst soldiers,” Thranduil responded, offense lacing his tone as he scoffed. 

“Nay, I would volunteer, my Lord,” Aragorn explained, “I fear that I would grow restless if my service was not put to use; I mean no offense, for your offer is most courteous.” 

“Very well, then,” Thranduil gestured with his staff toward the staircase that Legolas had earlier departed to, “You shall work with my son, for I trust him to be your guide and keep you safe should danger arise. Though, I would hope that you would not find yourself in trouble while staying as a guest in my home.” 

Aragorn bowed, once more, “Thank you, my Lord; it is my privilege to provide you the steel of my blade, and I hope that I may bring honor to you and your people.” 

With that, Aragorn was pardoned from the throne room, and he ascended the stairs back into the cavernous hallway above. There, he found Legolas waiting for him with an eager grin, and he stood attentive upon Aragorn’s return. 

“I hope that my father received you well,” His voice was laced with curiosity (and, perhaps, a bit of annoyance), for he did not dare to eavesdrop; he had too much respect for his father and Aragorn, though he was but a stranger. 

“Indeed, he did,” Aragorn began, “He has put me under your watch; I will stand alongside you wherever you may need a body to work. I am capable of much, truthfully, so it should not be much of a challenge to find a place for me to work amongst your patrols.” 

Legolas tilted an eyebrow, his grin stretched slightly further, “Then, you are staying?” 

“It appears that I am… Does this upset you?” Aragorn smiled, a slight tease in his voice. 

“Nay, it does not,” Then, he reached out to grasp Aragorn’s shoulder, his touch light against the worn fabric of Aragorn’s tunic. And, Aragorn looked down at his hand, warmed from the contact, “I have seen the same faces for many years, thus I look forward to getting to know you, Strider.”

*

Three months had passed since Aragorn accompanied Legolas back into the depths of Mirkwood; as he promised, he had provided his aide to the patrols and spent much time amongst the Elves guarding the rivers and woods. In the weeks that came and went, he found himself enjoying his stay within the Woodland Realm, for it was calm without much trouble, and he was fond of the company. The Elves told him tales he did not know from an ancient world — a time when his ancestors roamed the earth in the same places he had been. These were the histories that flowed through his veins, the stories that he carried with his name.

During the passing months, he had come to spend much time with Legolas, and he was unsure how it came to be, but he was not displeased; they worked well together, for they understood each other well and did not mind the silence that often grew between them. It had become natural, and they would seek out one another with plans to travel into the forests to patrol the area for dangers that lurked in the woods. 

One day, they had chosen to travel to the northeast, searching there for creatures that may have wandered too close to the edges of the Elvenking’s lands. They had decided to follow the Forest River north, since patrols had not been that way in many weeks, and they had grown tired of their other usual stops in the forest. 

They had left before dawn and found themselves many leagues from the fortress when the sun rose behind him, soft pink beneath orange clouds. After many hours of walking without much of a set course, Legolas showed Aragorn a deep pool in the river where they could bathe and rest, for they did not know when they would have the chance again. There, they bathed in the cool waters of the Forest River, where the stream was calm and the stillness of nature settled around them. 

After, they sat upon the river bank, and the sounds of the current and songbirds filled the air. Many beats of quiet passed without a word to say, the stillness of the morrow a soft curtain around them. Then, Legolas spoke: “Do you plan to stay here with us?”

Aragorn glanced toward him, his hair still damp from his wash, and it fell in loose strands before his face, “Do you wish me gone?” He laughed, his eyes bright and full of morning sun. He had become a much different Man than the one Legolas had met months before; then, he was hesitant and bruised, but his body had since healed. Now, he blossomed with mirth, as if he could finally breathe pure air after a lifetime spent in murk. 

Across from him, Legolas frowned, teetering on defensive, “It was a matter of curiosity. My father would have you run errands until your legs could no longer carry you, you must know… I just wonder, in our lands you are quite far from the west; would your people not question your absence?” 

“Nay,” Aragorn looked away, his focus on sharpening his dagger, for the pause offered the perfect chance to do so, “Rangers have been gone for longer without as much a word of their direction. It is our way, you see; we travel the Wild, protecting our people wherever we are needed.” 

“That is a lonely way to live, I assume.”

“Aye,” Aragorn slid his dagger back into its scabbard, then grabbed his overtunic and a needle; he began to patch the tear on his sleeve from the orc’s arrow — which had become quite a nuisance the last months, for no stitches could hold the fabric together again, “the Wild can be an unforgiving place to call home if you are not careful. Before I met you, I had not seen another soul for over a fortnight and not many familiar faces before then, either.” 

Legolas weighed on his words, for he enjoyed the comfort of the earth, too, but he did not thirst for it in the same way. “Does your heart not desire to settle? It is a vast world, surely you could have your pick in it.” 

Aragorn shook his head, then licked the thread until it fit through the eye of the needle, “Nowhere would have me — not because they are uninviting, but rather I am unwilling. My legs would turn restless, yearning for the call of the Wild. See, there is no greater pleasure for me than to defend my realm; I would gladly die for it as I live in it.” 

“That is quite noble,” Legolas smiled, amused by the ardor of Man, “The way you speak of your lands, it sounds much more beautiful coming from the tongue of Man than I would have imagined it to be.” 

“It is a wonderful country, though the Elven lands of Imladris are dear to me. I spent my younger years there, under the care and protection of Lord Elrond. There, at the edges of Eriador, where the mountains begin, is beautiful land; though, I have not spent much time there since my duties have taken me elsewhere.” 

Legolas raised an eyebrow, “You hail from Imladris? Does my father know of your relationship to Lord Elrond? Say, I would not have anticipated you to have such dealings with the Elves, Strider.” 

“Aye, your father does, and I assume that is how he knew of my name. Though, I have not been under Elrond’s care for many years now; the better half of my life has passed since I called Imladris my home.” 

Legolas looked upon Aragorn, full of wonder for there were many things he wished to know of such a Man. “There is an odd thing about you, Strider. I cannot quite figure you out; you are a Ranger of the North, a traveler and protector of Eriador. Yet, your eyes have seen further than your tongue tells.” 

“That is a bold assumption, Master Elf… I am who I say I am, there is no doubt,” Aragorn glanced up from his work to grin, for he knew Legolas’s thoughts to be true. 

“I do not doubt you are all the things which you claim… Yet, I ponder that there may be truths hidden within.” 

“I am just a Man,” Aragorn stated, gazing upon Legolas until their eyes met. In that moment he was as gentle, yet somber, as if he longed to speak more yet did not know the words to say. “It is true that I have traveled far and wide, across many rivers and mountains. And, I assume my journey has yet to end; perhaps, when it is over, I will become more of which you wonder.” 

Upon hearing this, Legolas smiled wide and something swelled inside him, tugging at his heart that he did not quite understand. And, he hoped that he would remember the moment as clearly as he lived it, for he loved the way the sun poured its warmth over them; it was, perhaps, the most beautiful morrow he had yet to live. He would come to see many more mornings beyond this one, but he was glad, then, to be there at the banks of the river with his friend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks again for reading! i can’t lie this chapter was a struggle for me, i rewrote it 4 times and it still feels off but i knew i needed to just go ahead and get it posted. but! i hope you enjoyed it anyway :)
> 
> with this chapter being posted the fic is now halfway finished!! i’m hoping to get chapter 4 ready within a few days!!


	4. A Higher Honor Than Friend

The morrow faded into golden afternoon, where the glow of the sun filled them with newfound warmth. Thus, they carried on throughout the forest, hopeful to reach the other end of the woods before the next nightfall — though, truthfully, they both did not mind if the journey took longer. They did not speak often, either, for their ears were needed for more than idle talk. 

The silence gave Aragorn much time to think, and he found himself lost within his thoughts more often than before. In the months that he had spent in Mirkwood, he found that he was not so eager to decide how long he would stay or where he would go after he had overstayed his welcome. The Wood-elves were a kind people, and he felt quite at home the longer he stayed within the comfort of their lands. He thought of his youth in Rivendell, where he would look upon the mountains — purple silhouettes against the halcyon sky, stretching on into the endless horizon — and, in a way, he felt just the same as he did then. He hoped that he could hold onto the feeling and tuck it away, somewhere safe, so that he would always remember how it was to feel such a way. 

Yet, the thing about forever is that it has learned to lure with empty promises, vows that it cannot possibly keep — forever for one must meet the end of another. And, this tugged at his heart, missing something he had yet to even have. 

He dared not speak of such things aloud, and he pushed them aside to listen for the noises of the earth. In the silence of the woods, they walked on, and for many leagues there was not as much of a stir; there were no creatures frolicing about, nor were there sweet lullabies from the songbirds they had heard along the river. In the heart of the day, the forest stood as still as the dim hours of the night. 

“Say, ‘tis odd, now that I have truly thought about it,” Legolas spoke as they stopped, standing in a small clearing surrounded by twisting roots and branches. He looked about in each direction, between the trees as far as he could see. “I have not seen traces of any creature, as if the animals have not lingered here for many days, now… I wonder if they have seen something that I have not.” 

Aragorn chuckled, “It would reflect poorly upon you if something so awry made it past your eyes, Master Elf.” 

“You jest, but there are many trees in this forest and even my eyes cannot see through them all,” He frowned, then, his brow taut as he listened to the sounds carried by the flowing winds. “I do not suggest we turn back, since we have not seen trouble thus far, but I do advise we tread carefully.” 

“Indeed,” Aragorn unsheathed his sword from its scabbard, the steel of the blade glistening in the pockets of sunshine overhead, “If something worries you, Legolas, then it would be foolish to pay it no mind, for I trust your word as if it was my own, now. It is often those who are too bold that meet their end quicker than those who are overly-prepared.”

With that, they went on their way further into the depths of the forest; they were careful where they placed their steps, for each crack of a branch or rustle of leaves could bring about a slew of unknown dangers. Legolas kept a keen ear out for the melodies of nature — the chant of soft footsteps, the soothing ballad of the wrens, but they were not to be heard. 

They walked on for some time longer, until Legolas stopped and glanced into the forest, “Forgive me, but I cannot settle my mind… I feel as if I should head further north, like something terrible is drawing me toward it. If it is not too much of a burden, I will go on my lonesome for a while and meet you with, anon.” 

“‘Tis not a burden,” Aragorn replied, “I can accompany you, if you wish, for I would not want you to find yourself in trouble should you meet such dangers.” 

“No,” Legolas declined the offer, as he felt much the same about bringing Aragorn into the depths of unknown perils, “I do not mean offense, Strider, but I would be able to move much quicker if I was alone… You need not worry, though, for I know my way around these woods, and I have done it many times before.” 

Aragorn shrugged, “If you are certain, then I will try not to put too much distance between us… I will continue down our path, and when the sun sets I will wait for you.”

With that, Legolas disappeared into the forest, slipping between the trees and the shrubbery; Aragorn watched until he could no longer be seen, and an odd feeling swelled inside him, then, as if he should call after Legolas to wait. Though, he thought better of it, and he continued on his way. It was then he realized he had not been on his own in the Wild for months, and it was not as comforting as it had once been. For many years he had been one with the earth, but it felt cold and lonely, then, in a strange forest he did not know. 

He walked on for a few more hours, until the sun had begun to sink beneath the horizon, and the woods grew darker with each step taken. He thought of Legolas, hopeful that he was safe and that they would reunite before the dawn. Though, he did not doubt the skill of an Elf, for he had seen Legolas against many foes, now, and if there was anyone capable of surviving within the shadow of the forest — where the earth was veiled in shadow and lonesome — it was him. 

It was then that a distant rumbling came from the north, growing louder with each passing moment. Aragorn unsheathed his blade and drew it before him, then realized that the winds carried the rhythmic drumming of stampeding feet. He thought, then, of the orcs in Cardolan, and he made for the nearest tree to climb within its winding branches. There, he hovered above the forest floor, high enough so that he was hidden within the shelter of the leaves, listening to the trampling footsteps as they grew nearer. 

Then, at once, three wild wargs fumbled through the woods and tumbled over one another as they tripped over the roots along the ground. Aragorn held his breath until it turned right in his chest, hopefully that the beasts would not trace his scent to the tree he had sought refuge in. Beneath him, the wargs snarled, and their snouts sniffed the air as they rushed back-and-forth, eager for fresh meat to satiate their gluttonous hunger. 

He reached for his bow — one crafted by Wood-elves and gifted to him during his stay — and he aimed a steady arrow between the eyes of the nearest warg; the two other beasts wandered about in circles, their noses pressed to the ground as they growled and panted, growing impatient with the lack of prey. Then, Aragorn let an arrow fly, sending it straight into the skull of the warg, and it let out a hideous cry before toppling over. The creature thrashed against the ground, wailing as it died, and the other wargs ran towards its body to investigate the scene. Before Aragorn could send another arrow their way, they set their sights on him within the branches of the tree and huddled around the bottom. The wargs tried to climb atop one another as they howled, snapping at his feet with their vicious jaws; their fangs were sharp like daggers, and they tore off pieces of the tree bark as they scratched and clawed beneath him. 

He knew that the beasts would stop at nothing to tear his body to shreds and have him for their dinner, so he used the base of his bow to hit one of the warg’s in the snout; it wobbled backwards then, wailing as it went. Then, Aragorn readied his sword and jumped from the tree, landing atop the other warg’s backside; the creature thrashed about in violent fervor, twisting its neck to bite at Aragorn’s limbs. Though, Aragorn drove the tip of his blade through the thick hide of the creature’s nape, and he was bucked from its back; his head crashed against the ground which turned his vision blurry, and he laid for a moment listening to the sound of warg whining as it died. 

Before he could stand, the remaining warg sprinted toward him, now recovered from the bow injury, and pinned him to the ground beneath its large paws. The warg hovered over him, its eyes yellow and hungry as it puffed hot breath into his face. Then, the beast lifted its paw and raked its claws across Aragorn’s breast, digging deep into his skin while he scratched. 

The pain cut through him like a branding, white-hot flash. Aragorn yelled out in pain, his vision blurred and his head dizzy as he struggled beneath the weight of the warg atop him. A long string of saliva hung from the creature’s mouth, trailing down from its snout until it puddled on Aragorn’s chin, its breath foul as it snarled before his face. Then, with the last bit of strength he had left, Aragorn reached for his dagger, struggling to pull it from its scabbard before stabbing it into the warg’s thick hide; though, the warg did naught but growl, for it still held the upper hand in this fight, and its hunger ached much worse than the wound.

Above him, the beast opened its jaw, its teeth yellow and cracked, but still sharp as talons. Aragorn fought against the beast, as much as he could, thrashing against the ground as he tried to kick the creature off him — though, this only made the warg dig its claws deeper into the wound, pressing down harder with all its strength. Yet, before it could tear through his flesh, its heavy body crashed down atop him. 

Then, Legolas appeared above him, hazy as the world swirled about in Aragorn’s vision. The trees of the forest danced in doubles, swaying back-and-forth to a silent chorus; there were two of Legolas, then, and they spoke to him in frantic words lost to the ringing in Aragorn’s ears. Legolas shoved the warg’s lifeless body to the side and kneeled beside Aragorn, cradling the back of his head in his hands as if tending to a baby bird with a broken wing. 

In that moment, Aragorn could not help but to think that he would die. He had faced many foes — much more wicked than a pack of wargs — yet it took but one beast to overcome the might of Man. 

“We do not have much time,” Legolas spoke softly — masking his panic — as his fingers caressed through Aragorn’s tangled hair, brushing it aside, “Are you able to stand?” 

Legolas glanced down at where the warg had slashed across Aragorn’s breast, and the skin there was torn and bloodied. His chest was speckled with cuts and bruises, and his breath came out in heavy pants, struggling for air to fill his lungs. 

“There may be more… We must find them—” Aragorn croaked out the words, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. There was a sharp pain in his ribs that protested the movement, and he settled back against the hard earth with a groan. 

“There are more,” Legolas began, holding Aragorn still in his arms, mindful not to put pressure on the sores, “When I saw them, I turned back to find you — to warn you. I was too late, it seems, and there are many of them that we cannot take alone; I will send for patrols when we return home, and they will find the rest of them… Do not protest me, Strider, for you are brave, but you are still just one Man.” 

Aragorn grunted, shame washing over him that he let a lone warg have such an effect on him, but he knew that he would not have the strength of fight against an entire pack; that would leave Legolas to carry the burden of battle, and he could not risk such a loss, not now. So, they sat still for a moment to allow Aragorn to catch his breath, and the world faded in-and-out, fluttering from light to dark before Aragorn’s eyes. Then, he rested his head against Legolas’ lap and closed his eyes, drifting away into the shadow of sleep. 

*

“I am glad to see that you are awake,” Legolas’ voice welcomed him, beckoning him from the veil of blissful dreams. The world around him was but a haze, yet he could sense Legolas beside him, and the familiar feeling of comfort washed over him. His body ached in many places, and he felt as if he could not move even if he so desired, for his bones were weak and tired. Legolas looked upon him with a soft smile, which was nearly lost within the dim candlelight around them. 

Aragorn groaned as a sudden pain shot through his side like a burn; he realized, then, that he did not feel the damp, cool earth beneath his head but rather a feathery pillow. When the world settled around him, and the corners of his vision no longer ebbed into darkness, he found that he was in his quarters, tucked into the comfort of his bed. He struggled to think of how he came to be there, for he could not remember traveling through the forest or across the river. He looked upon Legolas, then, guilt-ridden for he knew it must have been much trouble, “I do not remember the journey back.” 

“I thought not,” Legolas smiled and placed a goblet of dark liquid within Aragorn’s limp grasp; the mixture smelled of the earth, and there was a collection of herbs floating at the top. He brought the drink to his lips, and the taste upon his tongue was sweet, like nectar from the finest flower. The warmth soothed his throat and flushed through his body, which burned with each breath taken. “I helped you walk, but you dozed off many times as we traveled back. For a long while, I was not sure that you were going to be able to make it home — especially across the river — but you have proven, once again, to be quite a survivor.”

The ache pulsated in his ribs, like his body had been trampled by a hundred wargs rather than just the one, and the mark on his breast burned as if touched by fire. “How is the wound?” He asked, though he dreaded the answer.

“Though it must not feel that way, it could have been much worse; you are quite fortunate,” Legolas admitted, relief lacing his tone. Yet, he supposed Aragorn did not feel so fortunate, as his body was slumped against the mattress without the strength to hold himself up. “The wound has been dressed and tended to while you slept, for you have been in good hands here. I’m sure you know the wonders of our medicine; you will be back on your feet in a matter of days without much but a scar to remember this by.”

“Days?” Aragorn’s eyes widened, and he felt his body protest against the sudden movement as he tried to lean forward to no avail, “I cannot lay idle in bed for days… You know that not of me.”

“I am afraid that you have no choice in the matter, for my father has ordered it. You would not go against the word of the king, would you?” He grinned, then, for he knew that he had won, and he watched as Aragorn settled back against his pillow. 

Then, Aragorn reached out and placed his hand atop Legolas’, his mouth pressed into a thin smile. Legolas felt quite odd, as if this touch was any different from the rest. And, perhaps it was. “Thank you, Legolas; if you had not come when you did the warg would have slashed my throat… I owe you my life, truly.”

“Nay,” Legolas’ skin was warm beneath Aragorn’s tender touch, and their eyes met for but a moment before Legolas let his gaze fall to his lap, unable to look upon Aragorn, “You owe me naught but your good health; I would ask for no more than that.”

Legolas reached out, unsure of himself but feeling quite brave, and pressed his palm against Aragorn’s cheek; the rough hairs of his stubble scratched against his smooth skin, and he felt cool against his touch. Aragorn’s face was worn — scarred and cut in various places across his skin — but he looked all the more like a warrior fresh from days of battle. Then, Legolas brushed a loose strand of Aragorn’s hair back into place, and he looked upon him as if he was tender and ready to break at any moment. Though, he did not feel pity for him, for he knew Aragorn would not wish for such sorrow, but he longed to ease the pain. 

He spoke softly, then: “I do not doubt that you have fought many great foes,” His touch was light against Aragorn’s face, as if he was afraid that he would break him should he press any harder, “but as I told you before, you are just one Man, and not even the strongest of Men can do everything alone.”

“I am not alone, for you are here beside me,” Aragorn smiled and, just barely, leaned into Legolas’ touch; his eyes fluttered shut, as if he was ready to drift into the veil of sleep once more, thirsting for rest. 

The corners of Legolas’ mouth twitched, and he looked away, letting his palm fall from Aragorn’s cheek. He did not know what else to say, for all words escaped him, though his mind was full of many thoughts. So, he sat in silence, letting the moment come as soon as it went, and stayed quiet for what felt like a lifetime. 

After a while, Legolas thought Aragorn had fallen asleep, as he had been quiet for some time and did not stir a bit as he laid against his pillow. Though, before Legolas could excuse himself from the room, Aragorn opened his eyes and spoke: “I am grateful that you and your people have been so welcoming since my arrival, for I did not expect to find such a thing when I set out from the west. I have not known such kindness from strangers in quite some time, now.”

“Do you see me as a stranger?” Legolas asked, with a slight grin, “We have been through much together in a short time; I would consider you a friend.”

Aragorn looked upon him, his eyes bright for the first time since Legolas found him in the forest, “Your hospitality has meant the most to me, Legolas; I look upon you not as a stranger, but rather a companion.”

“That seems to be a higher honor than friend,” Legolas whispered, surprised at the slight shake in his voice while he spoke. 

“Aye, indeed it is, for I truly mean it…” His words faded, but he did not let the moment pass, for he could not stop himself from speaking now: “In hindsight, I am glad that my course was set astray, because I do not think I would have met anyone else along the way that would make me feel quite the same.”

Legolas turned his gaze away, then thought to himself for a moment, wishing that he could find the right words to say what had been on his mind for many weeks, now. “I am grateful that our path crossed, as well; I feel within me that it was meant to be this way, that something great is bound to happen… Is that an odd thing to say?”

“Nay, I feel quite the same, though I do not know why,” Aragorn’s face was soft, and he had forgotten the ache in his bones, for just a moment, “Though, I suppose there is beauty in that. If we knew how each great tale went, then we would simply skip to the end. We will have to be patient, then, and I hope that we see great times and know each other for many long years, Legolas.”

“Yes, I hope so, as well,” Legolas smiled, and he waited beside Aragorn for him to drift into sleep, for his fatigued body needed the rest. Then, he sat beside Aragorn until he grew tired himself, and he dozed into a peaceful slumber filled with dreams of happier days that he had yet to see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading!! :)


	5. Beneath the Moon and Stars

The promises of Elvish medicine had held true, for Aragorn healed within days time, just as Legolas had assured. Then, when his body could support itself without collapse, he had naught to remember the day by beside the scar upon his breast. And, a mighty scar it was, for he had three claw marks seared into his skin like rushed brushstrokes. Though, he had also come to learn that the ache in his ribs was due to a fracture, and he was not so pleased to learn that he could not join the patrols until he had healed. Thus, began the passing weeks that went on like a slug, perhaps slower than, but he did find himself in quite good company. 

Through the brunt of the healing, Legolas stayed by his side, doing what he could to ease the pain. In the days that passed, he struggled to find a cure for Aragorn’s growing restlessness — which gnawed at him like a dog to a bone — and pacing about the fortress halls did not satiate the thirst he held for the Wild. 

Thus, Legolas would escort him on short walks through the nearby forest, which turned longer each day until they would find themselves enveloped in eventide, not so eager to journey back home. It was there that Legolas showed Aragorn the beauty of his homeland — the places that did not offer much to those who were not eager to look. Between the darkness of the trees that shadowed over the land, some of the woods had been kissed by golden blaze, and the earth blossomed and bathed in the sun’s splendor. There, Legolas spoke of many stories from days long since passed; and, his words were laced with a hint of sorrow, but he was quite blithesome, too. The ebbing wave of nostalgia washed over, and Aragorn, too, found himself longing for a time he had not lived — yearning for the halcyon days of yesteryear that passed ere he could wallow in their lulling tide. 

In the months that passed like the first embrace of morrow’s breeze, they continued to stroll through the woods when time allowed, even after Aragorn’s wounds had come to heal; it had become their perfect way to pass time — in a still corner of the world that belonged to them, wrapped within the solace of nature. 

They had come across a pond, once, and decided henceforth that it would mark the end of their day’s journey should they choose to head that direction; there, they would sit upon the water’s edge, their feet bare and tickled by the reeds along the banks. When the sun peeked through the forest canopy — at just the right hour — its light would cascade across the waterfront like glistening gemstones lost beneath the surface. And, the setting was just so one day, when Legolas looked upon Aragorn and found him to be lost in thought, smoking from his pipe while he listened to the rippled waters before them. There was a slight tilt to his head, and the sunlight was lost within his eyes, which fluttered as he puffed rings of smoke into the breeze. 

Legolas’ heart quivered, then, as if it had just awoken from a lengthy slumber. And, he was sure that he would sit beside Aragorn, at the edge of the pond, forever if that is what he chose to do with all his days. 

“This day is quiet,” Legolas began, cutting through the silence, and he sat with his legs crossed and hands folded within his lap, comfortable in the warm sunshine, “but, I assume the night will not be… Do you mean to join us, for we will prepare a great feast and sing songs that you would not have heard before, I’m sure.” 

Aragorn shrugged, then puffed at his pipe a few times before he spoke: “I have not given it much thought, though I have heard talk of it, and I am sure it will make for a beautiful night.” 

“It shall, for I have seen many feasts and each one is as pleasant as the last,” He grinned, lost in the memory of many years past. He turned sheepish, then, realizing that the moment was fading away from him, settling back into a comfortable quiet, and he reeled it back in: “It would bring me much joy if you would accompany me tonight,” His breath felt taut in his chest, as if he had dared to say too much — yet, not enough, either. 

“Then I shall be there,” Aragorn drew from his pipe a long moment, blowing a thick cloud of smoke into the air before him. Then, he followed it with a series of smoke rings that dissipated into the breeze, one after another. 

“The night shall bring tidings of good will,” Legolas began, “It will mark the beginning of the new season and with that comes hope for our people that we will see peace for many more.” 

Aragorn stretched his legs out before him, his feet bare as the grasses brushed against his skin. Above them, the sky was cloudless and fair, and the songbirds had returned after settling for the season. He was content, too, to sit in the forest forever, if he could make such a commitment — surely, if his body needed naught beside the shelter of the woods, he would spend the rest of his days there, and he would be quite happy to do so. 

“I have enjoyed our time here,” Aragorn began, “I have spent most of my life in the Wild, and I thought that I knew it quite well and loved it, too; but, these woods have taught me that I knew naught of the sort.” 

Legolas laughed, feeling quite the same, “I am glad to have someone to show them to — an outsider who can see the beauty of our lands just as we have for many years, that is not something I thought I would come to find.” 

They sat beside the pond a while longer, the time spent full of idle talk, and neither wanted to pull away from their corner of the earth. It came time when the sun faded into an autumn semblance, masking the waterfront in a pink-orange pool. And, that night, the Wood-elves gathered about the nearby woodland to celebrate the changing of the season. They waited until the moon was high in the sky, full and iridescent like a glowing pearl against the crepuscule. Elves that lived in all parts of the forest attended, too, and they sang songs of the ancient years that had carried on throughout time; their lullabies filled the night, soft and serene, and filled with hopeful sentiments of lasting peace. 

There were many candles that decorated the clearing in the woods, and their pulsating flames made for the only light in the forest — beside the pale of the moon. The Elves danced beneath the moonlight, while others feasted and drank wine that had been stored for many years, casks left untouched just for the occasion. 

In the months he had stayed in Mirkwood, he had yet to see the Wood-elves so cheerful, and it warmed his heart that they welcomed him to this side of them. There, he stood at the edge of the clearing, a goblet of strong wine in his grasp, enjoying the sight of the Elves dancing and singing before him in their native tongue. 

In the clearing, the Elves sang a song for the change of the season, just like so: 

_O, dear queen of the night, we dance beneath your silver!  
_ _From the waves of the sea to the tallest mountain,  
We wait for your blessing, then bathe in your splendor._

_In the twilight, she calls us from the forest we lay.  
And, we awake from our slumber ere the early morn.  
Soft! Do ye hear her? We ought not delay.  
_

_O, dear queen of the night, we hope not for the morrow!  
We long for your grace from the lands east and west.  
Yet, thee fade away in reverie, leaving us to sorrow. _

_Bless the night so it may grow longer, ‘tis all we ask thee.  
If not, we must plead for the most bountiful of seasons,  
and we will build homes in the roots from your trees._

_Hark! The tidings of the sun have come at last.  
We long for our fair lady, our maiden of faith.  
And, we awake ere the dawn in dew-covered grass._

_O, dear queen of the night, we dance beneath your silver!_  
_From the waves of the sea to the tallest mountain,_  
_we wait for your blessing, then bathe in your splendor._

The melody carried on throughout the night breeze for leagues, and the song went on for many more verses, each filled with hopeful tidings and love for the moon. It was then, however, that Legolas appeared beside Aragorn with a cup of wine for himself, and he had since changed into his formal attire; he wore a silver tunic, laced with intricate designs of the night sky. The other Elves dressed the same, the moon and stars poured into the fabric of their garments. And, upon seeing him, Aragorn felt the lull of relief tug at him, for he had not seen Legolas for most of the night, since his father had requested his presence beside him at the end of the long feast table. 

Legolas turned to him, then, a thick grin across his face that crinkled in his eyes, “I told you that it would be a great night, full of light and laughter… See above, the stars are the brightest tonight than they will be for the rest of the year. It has always been this way, and I do not know why; though, I do not think I would want to know, because the truth may be less exciting than I’d expect… Aside, this is why we have chosen this clearing for our feast — so that we may see the stars all the better.” 

“I am grateful that you invited me,” Aragorn took a sip of his wine, the taste sweeter than any drink he had yet known. It was like sweet nectar, straight from the hive of the honeybee, and it melted against his tongue. “‘Tis a gentle reminder that there may be moments of peace, even when the world feels as if it is but one thread away from pulling apart.” 

“Indeed, and, as you know, there is no shortage of suffering, for we Elves have lived through that and much more… We have seen dark times that are not so easy to forget. And, for many, ‘tis a wound that shall not heal…” His words faded, lost to the night, and he paused to watch his people frolic about before him, full of drink and a good night’s feast. “We take this night to remember that immortal life would not be worth much at all if we did not make time to sing and dance, too.” 

Aragorn raised his goblet, “Then, let us drink to good fortune for many years to come and that hope should find us well, even in the darkest of times.” 

Legolas mimicked the toast, and they both finished the remaining sips of their wine. Then, in the center of the clearing, the lutes changed their tune, plucking along to a new ballad with an ebbing crescendo. There, a crowd of Elves joined one another in a grand circle, twirling about to the instrumental rhythm as they sang. And, Legolas turned to Aragorn, a twist of a grin playing upon his lips: 

“Say, do you dance at all, Strider?”

Aragorn frowned, his arms folded before his chest, “Nay, ‘tis never been a habit of mine.” 

“It ought to be, and I would surely enjoy seeing such a sight,” He laughed to himself, “Oh, a Ranger dancing in my woods… Who would think of such a thing!” 

“You’ve seen no such thing yet,” Aragorn reminded him, followed by a failed attempt to mask his growing smile. From the days of his youth, he knew of formal dances from the Elves in Rivendell, which were graceful and quite slow. But, he was not so comfortable with the free-spirited manner in which the Wood-elves froliced about, full of careless joy as they carried themselves. 

Legolas held out his hand in invitation, “Oh, oblige me, Strider. I will have many more chances to dance with my people, but you may only have just the one!” 

“A comforting thought,” Aragorn retorted, feigning offense, but nonetheless, he reached out to accept Legolas’ waiting hand. Then, they danced together, off to the side of the clearing where no Elves would bother to glance in their direction. They found themselves to be a bit off-rhythm from the lute’s tune, and their feet fumbled, at first, bumping into one another as they tried to match the movements of the other Elves. Finally, when they eased into comfort, enjoying themselves, they found their flow and swayed with one another. 

“Something tells me that you were not so honest about your distaste for dancing,” Legolas teased as he circled back into the dance. 

Aragorn shrugged, “Perhaps it is but one of my many natural talents.” 

And, it was then the music slowed, and Aragorn felt as if he should not have drank so much wine, for his head was not so clear. Yet, he dreaded to think of the sun rising between the forest, for he did not wish for the night to end. He felt something silly come over him, and he took a daring step closer to Legolas, looking upon him as if he had just woken from years of foggy sleep.

Then, Legolas reached out and placed his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, his touch tender upon him, as if he was unsure of himself. He glanced toward the stars as they glistened in the night sky, and he spoke somberly: “I do not wish to dampen the mood, but I have been wondering for some time, now… I know that you cannot stay here forever, Strider, though I wish that you would; you said it yourself that there is not one place you would call home. Thus, I wonder where it is you will find yourself next.” 

Aragorn blinked, feeling more like himself, then. But, perhaps, a bit disappointed, too. “I will return to Eriador,” He replied, as if he had the answer long since decided before this night, “I will meet with the other Rangers and see what needs to be done, for I can only hope that they have not seen much trouble during my absence… Though, if you do not tire of me just yet, I would stay in your lands a while longer.” 

“As long as you are happy, then you may stay as long as you wish; you know that I enjoy your company,” Legolas grinned, then held out his empty cup before him, “More wine?” 

Aragorn obliged, handing off his goblet and watched as Legolas blended into the crowd of Elves in the clearing, most of them still swaying about to the lute’s gentle cadence. And, then, his heart swelled, for he could not help but think of how fair Legolas appeared beneath the pale of the moon; his hair was silver against the twilight, as bright as the stars themselves. And, he wondered then, how he would come to feel when it was time for him to return west, for he had come to love the Woodland Realm and the Elves within it. 

He felt the ghost of Legolas’ touch still lingering upon him, like a blossoming warmth that had kissed his skin. And, the world felt as if it was but a dream — a halcyon haze that he did not wish to wake from, and he hoped that he never would. 

“Here,” Legolas returned to him with a full goblet of wine for both of them, “Drink up, Strider! This is the finest wine that we have to offer, and I promise that you will never taste nectar so sweet anywhere else you may visit in all your days.” 

Aragorn brought the rim of the cup to his lips, sipping at the drink like smooth velvet against his tongue. Then, he felt as if he was sinking — shrinking smaller and smaller until the world was much too large for him. He felt the weight of the earth beneath his feet, as if he was trapped in thick mud but did not wish to move, for his legs had turned stubborn. Each river and mountain that he had crossed brought him there, and he knew that he would travel from each end of the world and back again if he could hold on to the feeling for the rest of his life. 

And, then, Legolas smiled as if he felt just as small, too — as if nothing beyond the forest mattered, for the stars were twice as bright on this night, and the world was much too large for worries. 

*

A year plus some had passed since Aragorn first arrived at the Woodland Realm, and what a marvelous year it had been. He had kept his promise to King Thranduil that he would serve his people wherever a body was needed, and he fought spiders, orcs, and trolls alike while out on his patrols. Though, as busy as he found himself to be, he could not help but think of the west and hoped the people there were as safe as he had left them. The other Rangers, he knew, would let no such harm come to their realm — for they loved it as much as he — but that did not ease the lingering dread that something had gone amiss in the west. It slithered its way into his thoughts, and his dreams, even, like a wicked snake hidden in the meadow grass. And, it ate at him, gnawing at him to the bone, and nothing could soothe the nagging unease. 

He had come to occupy his free time — and wandering thoughts — with literature, and there was no shortage of such in the Elvenking’s halls. The libraries were quite grand, filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of poetry, tales, and other literary accounts that had survived centuries of wear. And, he would sit in his quarters, his nose deep within the pages of a book, filled with wonders of years since passed. 

This particular morning, he found himself with naught to do but sit idle in his quarters with an ancient Sindarin tome in hand. The room was quite dark with the flickering candlelight just bright enough to make out the words on the pages. And, he did not mind one bit, for he enjoyed the quiet and the way he could lose himself in the verse, adrift in the solace of a world that did not feel as if it was a boat sloshing about an unruly sea. 

Then, there was a sudden knock upon his door, and when he opened it he found an unfamiliar face before him. There stood an Elf with a pouch of letters and other assorted papers, and he bowed before he spoke: “I have been sent for you, as the King requests an audience in his throne room, anon, Sir. I have been informed that there is a visitor for you, and they cannot wait but a moment longer.” 

Without another word, the courier turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor to finish his route, leaving Aragorn bemused in the threshold of his quarters. It was quite befuddling news, surely, for he had said naught of his stay in Mirkwood to none beside the word he had sent to Rivendell upon his arrival. Thus, not so eager to keep his company waiting, he slipped back into his quarters and dressed for his meeting with the king. 

Then, when he stood before the grand throne room, he was permitted swift entry from the guards; they ushered him in, walking him to the base of the staircase before the king’s throne. There, Thranduil stood with his staff in hand, occupied in deep conversation with a cloaked being before him. At once, he took notice of Aragorn, and gestured for him to join them atop the platform where they stood, “Come forth, Strider.” 

Aragorn bowed before the king and his guest, and Thranduil spoke once more: “It is my pleasure to introduce you to my guest, Mithrandir… Though, from what I have since heard, you do not require much of an introduction.” 

The cloaked man turned, then, and tugged at the gray fabric of his hood to reveal his face and long beard. Aragorn stood in awe, the words unable to form in his mouth, lost against his tongue, and he bowed. “Dearest Gandalf, it has been many years since last we met.” 

Gandalf grinned, “Indeed, it has been far too many. Though, you are not an easy Man to find,” He chuckled to himself, then shared a knowing glance with Thranduil, “I traveled far, and for many weeks before I heard word from Lord Elrond that you had stopped here in the forests of Mirkwood; I was fortunate to find you still here.”

“Aye, I have been amongst the Wood-elves for a year now, it seems; my Lord has been quite courteous to allow me to stay for as long as he has,” Aragorn replied, and, while he was rather glad to see an old friend in the most unlikely of places, he did not feel any more at ease. There was a deep tension that cut through the air — that most would miss, if they were not looking for it — and it felt suffocating, as if each breath taken turned more taut in his chest. 

“Very good,” Gandalf smiled, his eyes betraying him, and then turned to face Thranduil, who watched with curious eyes, “King Thranduil, if I may, I would wish to speak with Aragorn alone, for too long has passed and old friends have much to discuss.”

Thranduil sank into his throne, “Of course, you both may be excused,” Though, before Gandalf and Aragorn could turn to be on their way, Thranduil more once more: “And, Mithrandir, I do wish to speak to you, anon. As you said, there is much to discuss.” 

“Indeed, I would not miss it,” Gandalf replied, then turned to Aragorn to usher him out of the throne room with the base of his staff. When they found themselves alone in the winding corridors, Gandalf continued: “Now, show me to your quarters, or any place that we may speak in peace; I do not wish for curious ears to hear what I must tell you, for it is quite serious, I’m afraid.” 

They strode forth in silence across the fortress back to Aragorn’s quarters, the tension stiffening the nearer they were. Then, when they arrived, checked for passerbyers, and closed the door tight behind them. When he turned back to face Aragorn, he had grown quite austere — as if he could not hide it a moment longer — and he spoke quietly: “I apologize for the informality; this is not how I wished for us to be reunited after all these years. However, I must ask how pressing are your duties here, Aragorn?” 

“I have offered my services to King Thranduil, but I am not bound,” He explained, that sense of unease bubbling inside his chest, threatening to spill out if he were not so careful. “There were whispers of my true name in the west, thus I intend to stay here until all has settled back that way.” 

Gandalf frowned and tugged at his beard, his brow pulled taut as he thought for a moment, “There are greater concerns before us, now, I’m afraid… See, there is much that you do not know, nor do I, for that matter. But, if there was ever a time that Eriador needed you, it would be now, as there is no one else I would trust with such a thing.” 

“What has happened?” 

“I would not speak in a place I do not know well,” Gandalf shook his head, and he looked very tired then, as if he had turned twice his age since they entered the room, “but I fear that we do not have the time for that. I will make haste then… Aragorn, I have reason to believe that the One Ring has been found.” 

Aragorn thought of the stories of his forefathers, the doom he had come to know quite well; he thought of the curse that haunted his bloodline, for it was but Isildur himself who brought upon the bane he spent years hiding from in exile. The selfishness of Men was not a burden that he could so easily ignore, however, and he carried the heaviness of the olden days upon him like a scar. He had hoped he would not see such times within his life, that he could let his lineage fade into legend like the Ring itself. But, he knew now, that he would not have much of a choice in the matter, after all. 

He had spent many years fighting the will of fate, only for it to catch up to him now, wrapping him in its clutches. And, he could not escape — not now. He could only pretend for so long, he knew, and the time had since come. 

He asked, then, the question he wished not to learn the answer to: “It has fallen into the hand of the Enemy once more, then?”

“No, no, not quite…” Gandalf offered him an empty smile, “It lays within the hand of a Hobbit.” 

Aragorn looked upon Gandalf, and he thought, then, that it would have been quite comical had it not been such a serious matter. “A Hobbit? How did such a thing come to be?”

“Well,” Gandalf made his way across the room, leaning on his staff, and sat within a small, cushioned chair in the corner. Then, he gestured for Aragorn to sit on the bed across from him. And, he smiled, “I suppose we do have some time spare… Listen, and I will tell you, for it truly does make quite a tale.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i hope my attempt at a tolkien-style song didn’t fall flat or come across cringe-y 😬😬 honestly i’m just super fascinated with the songs in the books and wanted to try my hand at one but MAN it was super hard. though it was a lot of fun researching and comparing, and i used [the elves’ lullaby](https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Elves_Lullaby) from the hobbit as inspiration! :)
> 
> also! if anyone is curious, for the dancing in the feast here’s some examples of what i had in mind :o [1 ](https://youtu.be/NiPD-q0KQlc) [1:20 mark] and [2](https://youtu.be/F2TsI_jBUjk) [2:00 mark]
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! :’)


	6. By the River Anduin

Gandalf had not been wrong, for the story of how the elusive Ring came into the possession of a Hobbit did make quite the tale. And, in truth, Aragorn wished that he had been around for such a grand adventure, as Gandalf was a wonderful storyteller; and, he recalled the journey with such profound ardor that Aragorn could imagine himself in their stead. But, as it seems all good things must go, he knew then that the facade was quickly crumbling — the subtle unease that had crept upon him wrapped itself tighter, suffocating like a thick cloud of dark smoke. 

And, Gandalf explained that there was much he had left unsaid, threats that had yet been uncovered, and things he could not speak of in such a place; though there were no signs of present danger, he knew that they could not afford to fall behind and not a moment could be wasted. Therefore, Gandalf left the Elvenking’s realm the next morning, before the sun had yet to rise, and he sat upon his horse and spoke, solemnly:

“I did not wish for it to come to this, and I hope that it is not as bad as it may seem. But, I fear, if the tide turns even a bit from our favor…” He drifted off, then waved the thoughts clear with his free hand, “Ah, but now is not the time for such worry. Perhaps, later, when we meet again in Eriador, I will come to you with greater tidings.” 

“I would hope so,” Aragorn spoke, “Our watch will be doubled upon my return, not a stir will go unheard by our patrols.” 

Gandalf nodded with the hint of a smile upon his lips, “Which is, precisely, why I came to you in this hour of need,” He paused for a moment, then turned to face the depths of the forest as if he could see far beyond the many leagues of trees, somewhere else in a time yet lived, “Well, I should be heading back, for it is quite a long journey, and I feel that there is not a moment to spare. Be well, Aragorn.” 

And, with that, he commanded his horse to run, and they disappeared into the shadow of the woods, his gray cloak fading into the dawn. There, Aragorn stood, feeling a bit displaced, and he did not know quite how to feel or what should await him. In all, he felt more stumped than before Gandalf arrived, for the wizard often spoke in riddles, it seemed. 

He knew, then, that he had to leave, which he had come to dread for many weeks, now. He would come to find comfort in the quiet of nature once more, alone with the trees and the songbirds, as he once had been. Then, his mind drifted to Legolas, and his heart swelled at the thought of him, and wished that he could be so selfish to stay with him, instead. That farewell, he knew, would hurt the worst of all his wounds, and he longed for happier days when he could stay amongst the people he loved for more than just a fleeting moment. 

So, that night, they strode into the forest together, back to that corner of the world that sat so untouched, reserved just for them. They were enveloped in the solace of nightfall, wrapped in the embrace of shadow where silver pockets of light dripped down from the stars. And, it was then that Aragorn looked upon Legolas, so becoming beneath the pale light of the moon, and he knew — he knew that leaving would not come so easily, now. The years that he had spent treading lightly in welcoming places had been in vain. Alas, though he longed to stay and spend the rest of his mortal days with a people he had grown so fond of, he knew that the perils of the earth were greater than the desires of one Man. 

He yearned to spill out his heart’s contents before him, ere he could swallow his words and let them fester inside of him. And, perhaps, if he had not felt so tender — so touched by the grace of the past year — he would have said more, emptying out the wayward depths until there was naught left but a hollow shell without a secret to hold. Instead, he sat beside Legolas, too unnerved to smoke from his pipe, and decided that, for now, he would share but a morsel of the stories he kept locked within himself. 

He began: “Before, many months ago now, when we sat by the river, you wondered about my identity. That I was not so honest about who I was or the places I had been. I spoke in half-truths, then — not out of distrust, but rather it was unimportant at the time.” 

“But, the time has changed,” Legolas spoke and felt his heart pounding, a growing crescendo that threatened to burst through his chest so that it could be free — he felt, then, that the world was not as gentle as it had been when they were together; that, instead, it was masked by a shadow — an awful beast that loomed between the trees, waiting with watchful eyes for the moment to pounce. He longed for how it once was, when they would sit beneath the warm embrace of the sun, basking in the glory of its golden splendor. 

“Aye, it has,” Aragorn said, somber. He dreaded the words and the taste of them upon his tongue, for it felt like an end to such a wonderful beginning — a bud that had yet to blossom. And, he disliked farewells and the way he would cling to them for far too long, weighing him down like an anchor to the sea — adrift somewhere else faced with an uncertain end. “Though, if you so desire, I would tell you my true name, for it is a name which I carry its heavy burden. It is the name and its titles which your father knew of me, and why he wished for you to find me. And, after all this time, I believe it is just as much yours to know, too.” 

“Tell me, for it has crossed my mind often, and I wish to know the truth now more than ever before,” Legolas knew, then, that this was his parting gift, and it was so bittersweet to receive such a thing. He would cherish it and hold it close to him, for he could not help — even in such a somber moment — to feel touched by the indulgence. 

Aragorn had an odd look about him, as if he had wandered off, leaving the shell of his being behind. He had become a different Man, then, perhaps a bit older and wiser, too — no longer the rugged, travel-worn Ranger that Legolas had come to know. “My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to Isildur… That is the truth which I could not speak before.” 

Legolas blinked, and he gazed upon Aragorn with a foreign look in his eyes, as if trying to place a stranger’s face he had seen but once, many years before. He felt as if he had peered into the looking glass and seen the truth he had always known: a king upon his throne, mighty and true, loved by many. In his heart, he had known that, of course, Aragorn could not have just been a Ranger or a common Man — he knew, somehow, that he had been kissed by the uncertain doom of destiny. And, the Man he had grown so fond of would not be able to settle with him, forever. A foolish hope it had been, he thought, the flower wilted before it had yet to be watered.

“It is about what I expected, though, I do not know how…” He admitted, “Though, I understand now why my father had been so eager to find you, for your name does hold much weight to it, and, perhaps, I should feel more astounded, but I do not.” 

“I hope there is no ill-will between us and that you see why I did not reveal this part of myself to you back then, Legolas,” He sighed, as if it pained him to speak, and he wished that he could take the words back, “It is not so safe, you must know. See, I have chosen exile and assumed the role of Ranger, for I do not thirst for the crown. I am no king, only in my blood.”

Legolas frowned, “There is no doubt that you would make a fair and gentle king.” 

“Indeed, that is the wish of all with pure hearts ere they sit upon the throne. Yet, the corrupted heart of Men often covets more. And, that desire is in my own blood — it haunts my lineage.” 

“You are not the mistakes of old,” Legolas reached out, then, and placed his palm upon Aragorn’s knee, settling into the comfort of the moment; and, he longed to show Aragorn how he had come to see him, as much more than a Man plagued by a past that did not belong to him. 

“Yet, ‘tis a shadow upon my heart — a wound that is not my own, yet spills my blood. I am the would-be king, if such a thing were to be, and I have spent many years hiding from that part of me.” 

There was not much more to be said, and, for the first time, he knew that he had met someone that made him want to reconsider his ways; to settle his wandering feet in a place that welcomed him — to be beside someone he had come to see as more than just a friend. 

But, perhaps, he had waited too long — perhaps, not long enough. Either way, the time was quite wrong. It was a curious existence, surely, for one to want so badly what was right before them; to be so close to all one could need and discover it was but a phantom touch of something yet to be.

*

When the shade of the night faded into golden morrow, the hour had come at last. The dew of the grass had yet to fall by the time they set out ere the break of dawn. Legolas offered to accompany him to the edges of Mirkwood, where they would part ways until their paths met once again. They did not speak much while they strode through the forest, but on the first night of their journey, they settled into a small pouch of earth for rest. 

They sat against the cool moss that blanketed a rounded stone while slivers of the moon spilled between the forest canopy, and the breeze danced through, carrying the warmth of spring. And, Aragorn tugged at his pipe, blowing puffs of smoke into the night air, watching as they faded away into the dark oblivion, lost within the trees. 

“There is a feeling that I cannot rid, and my attempts to push it aside have been in vain,” Aragorn admitted, “But, I cannot quite place it, either — as if it is equal part dread and hope. ‘Tis an odd way to feel, surely, like there are two missing halves to the whole.” 

“I cannot say I feel the same, but the earth does not feel as it once did before, like we are awaiting the lull of a great tide,” Legolas responded, his gaze taut on the woods around them, “I have lived for many years and not yet felt such a thing.” 

Aragorn huffed out an empty laugh, “Perhaps ‘tis just the worries of a Man called upon his duties after much time away — no more than that.” 

“I do worry about what you may find along your way,” Legolas admitted before they could fall back into silence, “Orcs, or the like; there is no telling what may have settled between here and the west in your absence,” He paused, then, hesitant before he spoke: “I would accompany you, if you so asked.” 

“I know,” Aragorn replied, his heart sinking, for he longed for nothing more, “and, that is why I would not ask such a thing… I feel that you are right where you belong, dear Legolas.” 

Legolas frowned, his brow pulled taut, “Perhaps you are right, but there is much that I long to see beyond this forest; places in the earth that are untouched and beautiful — where it feels like it is but a dream. So, when I am there, it does not feel that I was blessed with much time and did naught with it.” 

Aragorn smiled, reaching out to place his hand atop Legolas’ shoulder, “I hope you understand why I must go alone. Though, your day will come, but it is not this day.” 

And, with that, the quiet of the night fell upon them, once more. Legolas watched the forest for the night while Aragorn slept, listening to the sounds of the woods as the tree branches creaked in the night winds. In the morning, they continued their journey for another day, until they were welcomed by the rush of the River Anduin; the watercourse was smooth beneath the cloudless sky — the world as calm and fair as it had once been. And, they stood there for a moment, not so eager to bid each other farewell after all their time together. 

“You ought to reconsider your exile,” Legolas spoke at last, “I know you are afraid of what you may do, but think of what you could do… Does Middle-earth not deserve those who are eager to do what is right?” 

Aragorn smiled, though he did not feel like it, “I am not so sure I am what you say, dear Legolas. Though, I appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless.” 

“I knew you would say that,” Legolas chuckled to himself. Then, he stood and looked upon the Anduin, the water glistening in the sunlight, until it faded into the depths of the endless horizon. “A funny thing, this is, that we must say goodbye near where first we met.” 

“If only then I had known what I do now: that it was worth the onslaught of orcs so that I could meet such a wonderful companion,” Aragorn began, his throat constricting upon itself, though he dared not to think of it any further, “And, I hope that it is not so long ere we meet again.” 

Legolas nodded, without a word else to say, for all sentiment escaped him, then. And, they stood in the silence for a few beats longer, the time crawling past like a lifetime, neither wishing to be the first to say farewell. Aragorn’s feet had turned quite stubborn, like he could not possibly bring himself to move, and maybe he wouldn’t have if things had gone a bit differently. 

“Should you ever choose to stop running, you know a home which you are always welcome,” Legolas said, and he felt torn in two, as if he should reach out to grab Aragorn and not let him go. And, he hoped that, before the end, he would see him again. Maybe then, it would be different, for a year had not been enough time for tender love to blossom and grow. 

An odd feeling bubbled in the pit of Aragorn’s stomach, then — something that he had hoped to ignore for the sake of preventing a broken heart. Throughout his life, he had managed it before, but he could not stop himself, now. It tugged at him, a pestering little thing it was, and he could not stop himself from stepping closer toward Legolas until they were mere inches apart. He gazed into his eyes, then, lost within the depths of them, and knew that he would not leave the embrace of the east without a new mark upon him — forever a part of him, no matter how far he traveled, he would always come to think of the days they shared, golden and sweet, like a blissful dream. 

He reached out, his touch gentle against Legolas’ cheek, so sure yet unsure of himself all the same. Though, not that it mattered in the slightest — not anymore. 

“May I?” His voice came out as a whisper, his fingertips light against Legolas’ skin, cupping his chin. And, he was sure he could hear his own heartbeat outside his chest, the rhythm of his heart drumming as if it had just come alive. 

Legolas could only nod, the words lost on the heaviness of his tongue, and his breath was taut in his chest as he waited for Aragorn to close the space between them. And, when he did, relief washed over him that the wait had finally come to an end. He held Aragorn’s hand against his cheek, his touch ever so light, and kissed him back. 

They stayed like that for a moment, lost in a place where nothing mattered beyond the balm of the minute; and, for Aragorn, the weight of the world slipped off his shoulders and melted against the ground in a puddle. And, he felt whole, then, like the part of him he had been missing for so long had been found. Why he had tried to run from such a wonderful thing, he did not know. 

Once they parted, they took but a moment to catch their breath, and Aragorn spoke, cradling the sides of Legolas’ face between his palms, “You have been good to me, Legolas. You treated me fair before you knew of my true name, because it is the very essence of who you are; I have seen it many times over the last year, and I will hold your kindness very close to my heart. Do not lose your kindness, Legolas, for the world could never have enough good within it. And, that is why I leave your lands in good faith, for I know your corner of the world will carry on for many years to come — still standing after most Men have fallen — and that brings me much comfort... And, when things have settled in the west I will return, because I do not think, now, I will be able to be apart from you.” 

“I wish now that you would not go,” Legolas breathed out, a slight quiver in his voice that he did not try to hide, “But I understand why you must, and I would not stop you. Though, I hope that you are true to your word, Aragorn. I will await the day you return and maybe, then, it will last longer than just a fleeting moment.”

“I hope so, too,” The words did not come to him so easy, for he did not think he could commit the feeling to any language known. And, he would come to regret for quite some time after that he did not say more. 

“I think we have let enough time pass, though I wish we could idle a while longer,” Legolas said, wishing that he could pull Aragorn back into the forest and make the worries of the world fade away — so that he could be selfish, just this once and never again, he would promise. “Be on your way, Aragorn, and I hope that our paths cross again soon.” 

Aragorn turned, then, and he did not look back, for he did not know if he could stomach it. The flowing waters of the Anduin beckoned him to cross — to begin his next journey, into the face of uncertainty, wherever it should take him. And, perhaps, there was beauty in that unknown, for many good things come when they are least expected. His heart fluttered, like a bird taking flight for the first time — free from the cage whence it had lived. And, he was a bit afraid, but hopeful, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and, this brings us to the end! thank you all for reading and i truly hope that you enjoyed what you read because i loved writing it!! now that it’s over, i wish i made it last longer because i absolutely love writing for these two :’)
> 
> with that being said, i started writing this fic in early may and since then i’ve really wanted to carry it on into the events of the books/films kinda showing the in between moments that we didn’t get to see. so! i’ll be working on that shortly and would like to get at least a few chapters written before i actually post anything :)
> 
> anyway, thanks so much for reading this fic because i’m super proud of it! this is the first time i’ve committed to a multichapter fic and actually finished it, so thanks for joining me on the journey!!


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